Deal With It Tomorrow
by Feltaryn
Summary: Remus thinks of the secret he's hiding from his friends, from everybody, and it's not the one you'd expect. TRIGGER WARNING: graphic description of self-harm, and slight unrequited slash. Very angsty.


**Summary:** Remus thinks of the secret he is hiding from his friends, and it's not the one you'd expect. A bit of Wolfstar thrown in, but only really a mention.

**Warning:** Graphic descriptions of cutting, and the thoughts and feelings of one who self-harms. A bit of unrequited slash (malexmale).

**Disclaimer: **Characters mentioned and used in this story are property of the queen J.K Rowling.

**A/N: ~** Only my second one-shot, so sorry if it seems to start lose track about half way through. I wrote this in a depressing mood, and kept adding on to it for the next week whenever I needed something to take my anger out on. It's more of a self-reflective piece, but I tried to make it about Remus if I was going to write it.~

**Deal With it** **Tomorrow**

It's a thrill really.

The feeling of adrenaline filling your veins, racing a tingling path down your spine and through your fingertips, the way your breathing picks up. Your hands tremble and slide with a slippery mixture of perspiration and blood, and you can only grin as you watch your life spill down your arm.

It's warm, the blood, and such a gorgeous color. It's the color of fresh apples and a brand new corvette and it's absolutely your favorite color. You follow with wide eyes the trail a single droplet makes as it burst from beneath a shallow slice in your skin, running slowly down your forearm and nestling in the crook of your elbow, yours to do whatever you please with. It can be wiped away, or breathed in, or on display, but still it's yours to control. Your smile only widens as you bring the blade of the razor stolen from mother's kitchen back to your arm, pausing for only a moment to admire the way it glints silver and with freshly dried blood visible at only the tip, and breathe deep before pressing it to your skin. Hard. It stings, and the adrenaline rush is back, running through your whole body as you draw the blade across silky, previously unblemished skin. It tears, and that beautiful color is back again, dripping and oozing, and sanity be damned you love it.

It'll scar, the cuts, you know. Every swipe across your skin will linger for months but if anything, that only makes you want to make more. The scars are a delightful secret, stuffed away beneath long shirts and fashionable cuffs, and in moments of weakness you can slip your finger under a starchy sleeve and press down on the wounds; old and new alike, and along with the slight jolt of pain feel the mental strength surge through you with the knowledge of what you've hidden. You live for the stinging and burning that fills your nerve senses because its just so _there_, and you feel so _alive-_the rush filling every crevice of your body and pushing away the demons taunting you. If only for a moment. But it's a moment you absolutely live for.

Such a weird thing to think, that you live to watch yourself slowly die, because you know that's what you're doing. Despite the overwhelming feeling of joy a new cut brings, your smile is tainted and temporary because no matter how many times you bring the blade down, you can't bleed away every demon and evil thought. They fill you and consume you and you choke on them desperately, tears of unshed shame lingering along your eyelids. You don't let them fall, can't let them fall, it would be weak and you're weak but you can control this. You choose instead to stare at the cracked pattern of your ceiling while blinking away the emotions trying to spill from your eyes, instead deciding to let them out a different way. Hands feel instinctively for your razor, as your eyes are otherwise occupied, and you shudder with the feeling pulsing inside of you that makes itself known in moments like this. It makes you blindingly happy to know you can control what happens to your body and have taken it upon yourself to find a cure to the nasty thoughts swamping you on a day to day bases.

Metal makes contact with delicate, scarred skin and the gentle sting bleeds away to euphoria, and suddenly everything is alright. Pain is your only focus, and scars and different ways to hold your arm so you can watch easily the emotional turmoil leave your body. It rages in your veins and if you can let it out you're powerful, and you're in charge. The blood pounds fast in your heart, beating and dancing through your whole body, so loud you can feel it in your toes and tingling in your chest. It's almost tangible; it's amazing. Breathless laughter escapes your parted lips and soon your head is thrown back, tinkling laughter bubbling out of your throat, so much like the blood bubbling out of open wounds. It is a realization that snaps you back to reality and suddenly you're choking on your own spit and tears are spilling into your open mouth, leaving a salty tang as the pain in your arm dissipates and the pain in your heart remains. It's stronger than ever, and you curl into a ball on your ratty bed covers, your cries of longing and pain muffled by a single pillow shoved unceremoniously into your mouth. Your face is a picture of disaster, finally reflecting the madness within.

Every cut lets it be okay, but it can never stay that way. It's a temporary, disastrous release that piles on to the dull emptiness raking your body, leaving it shaking in heavy silent sobs. You were able to forget for the time it took your life to bleed from the cut you made, but now that the blood is gone and the burn dulled, the feelings that led you to such an action are back and stronger than ever. Your body jumps back and forth from smugness and shame of what you just did-even though you know you'll do it again. It makes it all worse in the long run-cutting-but you'll never stop, despite the consequences.

Because even a little break from your taunting thoughts is more than enough.

You go back to school in less than a week, you think with a sigh, the sobs and whimpering subsiding to a moment of thought. Back to Hogwarts, back to your friends, back to funny James and helpless Peter and a purely platonic relationship with Lily.

And Sirius.

Sirius Black, your best mate, your _male_ best mate, that you can't help but want a more than purely platonic relationship with. Regretfully, half the time it is he who drives your fingers into scrambling for something sharp. Not him in general, definitely not his perfect frame and charming personality, but your feelings of longing that remain crawling up your throat and jumping through your stomach with every thought of him, the ones that don't go away no matter how many times you reassure yourself it will never happen.

Because you're a guy and he's a guy and it's _disgusting_. Worst than that, you're you. _And someone like you doesn't belong with someone like him, _a voice whispers in your head, the fact settling in the pit of your stomach like a piled weight. You think you might be sick.

Desperate want of your razor seizes you and almost leaves you with more scars that night, before your freeze and remember. Back to Hogwarts-back to your friends and your secret love and thoughts yes-but also back to your friends and secret love who have no idea what you do to yourself, have not the inkling of a thought that you enjoy slicing up your body. Back to Hogwarts means back to hiding, as over summer your neglectful mother doesn't notice what you do in the dark of your bedroom, back to long sleeves and trousers and lies. Panic wraps your throat in a vice grip.

You don't want to give up your secret.

You'll have to be careful, laugh off picky questions and plaster on fake smiles all day, quip witty questions and sarcastic answers to keep up the facade. You'll be normal..until dusk falls.

Until you can kneel on hard loo tiles with a shaving razor grasped in your trembling fingers and a locked door acting as your guard, ears listening intently for a break in the snores echoing from the room beyond. Tear tracks will stain your face and an ever-present sting will prick in your arm as you crawl back into bed 20 minutes later; enclosed in a Silencing Charm, the smell of musty bed curtains, and the taste of despair heavy in the air.

Then when dawn breaks and yawns fill the dormitory, you'll flash a smile and inform your sleep sodden friends you're going to breakfast, a chipper jump in your step covering the quiver in your lip.

It will be routine, just like it has been for the past 2 years. You and your fake laughs, secret late night break downs, and oblivious, happy friends.

You let out a puff of air reminiscent of a sigh at that one.

Ah, your friends, the ones you never thought you'd have, you love them dearly. You really do. But they can't know about this, the scars that scatter your body from self-infliction and the pain that smothers you from self-hate. It's your secret and your release and it's your feelings. They don't know, can't find out.

They'll blame themselves, and try to help and get themselves all tangled up in the mess you created for yourself. Lovely Lily and the Marauders don't deserve to have that piled heavy upon their backs, just as you don't deserve them. You never did quite belong, no matter how many excuses you muster up to convince yourself otherwise, and it's that thought that makes you decide you don't need to give anyone any other reason to label you different. If you can swallow your haunting hate and cover the red army of lines tracing your forearms and protect your friends from knowing the beast lurking inside you, you'll be just fine.

_They'll never have to know. _

Your train of thought is placated and you fitfully feel yourself falling into slumber. You know it won't be the end of the lies and cuts and hot shame, but you let yourself go into the warm arms of sleep anyway. Your dreams don't haunt you with crude remarks like your self-conscience; you're safe there.

Barely registuring your actions, your hands sweep the dull razor back into your pillowcase, it's hiding place. You settle down for the night, moving as if on auto-pilot, and force your eyes shut against the scrabbling darkness swamping every corner of the room that surrounds you. You're cold, even with the blanket pulled over your body, and goosebumps rise against your pale skin-a chill sweeping over you despite the closed window.

It's not like it's over. Sleep doesn't banish the weeping dullness that consumes your every limb, plaguing you and dragging you down. The feelings will take you over again when you wake, leaving you a blubbering mess of blood and salty wet tears and plots of keeping it all to yourself, lying a debauched mess on your bed covers.

Such a horrible mess indeed. But as always, while your eyelids droop and your breathing evens out, your last thought remains the same as it is every night.

_You can deal with that tomorrow, Remus._


End file.
